Black Powder and Books
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: Teen!lock AU. John meets a mysterious boy in a mansion in he woods. Growing closer, both boys will learn to deal with their problems in love, life, and family.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I have returned, with my next full-length story! Simple AU teen!lock, a bit cliche at the beginning, but it will pick up! I have the fabulous Gabi1994 to thank for beta-ing this story, and hope you guys enjoy it as well! (Also, these chapters are going to be a bit longer than any previous ones and there will be fewer of them, if you were wondering :)**

**DISCLAIMER: All right belong to the BBC and ACD, I'm just toying around with the characters!**

No one ever went to the Holmes Manor. It was a building situated just east of the town of Fawsley. It was surrounded by a skirt of gnarly trees and only the tall towers with their pointed turrets could be seen from High Street. If you asked anyone, the people would tell you a variety of different stories.

"Obviously Lord and Lady Holmes are vampires, and they eat small children who wander off near the woods!"

"No, they're two fugitives running from the Serbian police! They _killed _the son of the Prime Minister!"

"I don't believe a word of that! They are just part of a ring of jewel thieves from Egypt! They keep the bulk of their stash up there!"

Whatever the case, you would be informed that you should never, under any circumstance, go anywhere near the looming mansion.

But John Watson rarely did what he was told. He assumed it ran in the family, but he didn't like thinking about family. Family had always been a tough subject for John. All of the trouble had begun with some black powder.

John was five years old when Mummy and Harry got into their first fight. Harry had put on some black powder all of her eyes and red sticky stuff on her lips that made them look like a firetruck. Mummy said it wasn't right for a thirteen year old to wear that much makeup, whatever that was. And Harry replied:

"No, you know what's wrong? Sleeping with the milkman! _That's _what's wrong!"

Harry must have said something bad because the next thing John knew, Mummy's hand flew through the air and hit Harry's face with a _crack_. Harry gave Mummy one look, a look of pure hate, before running up to her room.

John wanted to run and comfort his sister, but he didn't want Mummy to see him. He was old enough to know when Mummy was in a "mood" as Father called them. She would sit around a scowl, drinking out of her tall bottle. He was never supposed to talk to Mummy or upset her when she was in a "mood".

Soon, Father came running down the stairs and went to put an arm around Mummy, but she threw it off.

"I _hate_ that stupid child!" She cried, picking up a glass of milk and throwing it at the wall. It shattered with a crash. Loud noises always came with Mummy's moods. It was unsettling.

"Don't say that, Kelly, you're drunk. Let's go lie down." Father's voice was soothing, but John could hear the tension in his voice. He didn't like Mummy's moods either.

Mummy grumbled but swayed on her feet, letting Father catch her under the arms. He sighed and began to lead her up the stairs.

That was the first incident with the black powder.

The second incident came four years later. Harry still wore the black powder, which John learned was called eyeliner, but she wore a lot more. Her friends wore a lot too. John didn't like Harry's friends. They all smoked too much and wore too little. And one time, when Harry brought one of them over for a sleepover, Mummy walked in on them in Harry's bedroom. Eventually, John figured out what "walked in on" meant, but, even at age nine, he understood Mummy thought it was bad.

Mummy sent Clara home and called Father, and the two of them brought Harry into the sitting room, and said that they were going to have a talk and that John sould go upstairs. But John wanted to know what was wrong, so he hid in the cupboard and listened in.

"Harriet, what was going on in there?" Mummy asked, her voice calm and cold.

"What do you think, _Mother_? You saw it with your own eyes," Harry said with as much anger as she could muster.

"So you're lesbian, I assume?" Father asked in the same tone as Mummy. John thought that lesbian must be a bad thing from the way Father said it.

"_No_," Harry replied sarcastically, "I just enjoy _snogging _girls!"

"I cannot allow this, Hamish," Mummy said "it goes against what's _normal_. I will _not_ have the neighbours thinking we're some oddball family!"

"You think it's wrong, Mum?" Harry replied.

"Obviously. It's not...I will not allow it!" Father nodded in agreement.

"Seriously? So what, I'm not _allowed_ to love who ever I want?"

"You can fall in love with a nice, respectable, _man_, rather than a slutty girl."

"And if I won't?"

"Then you are no longer allowed to live here anymore." Mummy said this with such finality that even John gasped.

"What?" Harry shrieked in response, "You're kicking me out?"

"Well, Kelly, we could always see if someone could help her, a doctor or therapist..." Father's sentence trailed off into the air.

"_Help?_ This isn't some _sickness _you can cure! You are just a bunch of fucking homophobes! Maybe I _would _be better somewhere else!"

With a huff, Harry got up and began to tramp upstairs. John quickly left his hiding place and scampered up after her, still very confused.

"Harry?" He whispered, knocking softly on the door. He pushed it open to see his sister throwing piles of clothes into a large duffle bag. She turned with an angry look that soon faded into a smile as she saw who it was.

"Oh, John, did you hear that?" John nodded. "Well, what do you want to know, Johnny?"

"Why are you going away?" John tried to be strong, like the soldier Father used to be, but he felt his lower lip tremble on its own accord.

"Well, Mummy and Father won't let me fall in love with Clara because she's a girl. They think it's yucky." Harry pulled John into her lap and looked him in the eye. "John, promise me that if you ever meet a boy who you love very much, you won't listen to Mummy and Father who will tell you it's wrong. It's not wrong, it's all perfectly fine. Follow your heart, okay?" John nodded with a smile and Harry wiped away a stray tear. "Okay, I have to go now, but I'll write to you, okay?" With one last kiss on his head, Harry pushed John back out of the room.

Pushing away his tears at the unfairness of life, John ran back to his room and closed the door, trying to drown out the shouts of the three older people as Harry fought to leave.

After the event when he was nine, John got the occasional letter from Harry who was living with Clara and her family. Even seven years later, the two siblings still corresponded.

John was always exploring. It was useful to get away from the coldness that inhabited his house. Not only was Mum always in a mood, Father had to works two jobs to keep the house and buy Mum's liquor. John hated his mother's habits, but put up with them because he knew nothing good would come of fighting.

John didn't have many friends at school, he disliked the trapped feeling that plagued him in social situations and could never wait for them to be over. He never excelled in any subject, eternally mediocre.

But when he was outside, he felt free as a bird. He would climb every tree, clambering from branch to branch. Sometimes he would just sit for hours on end, listening to the nature that was going on around him. Other times would be spent building forts with branches or seeing how far he could throw big rocks.

Yet he still never went closer than the edge of what people called the Skirted Woods near Holmes Manor. It was a scary place. But one day, after a particularly bad night, he decided it was time for a new challenge.

He gathered his supplies: sturdy, loose clothing that blended with the colours of the wood, a small water bottle, his pocketknife, and a clip-on torch if he stayed out past sunset. All of the items went into a small, forest-green backpack. Then, he set out, climbing over the gnarled roots that jutted out of the ground, pushing branches out of his way, and slowly making his way closer to the secretive mansion.

He stopped to rest, pulling out the flask of water. Taking a cool sip, he tried to figure out where he was. He had been walking for only an hour, but could no longer see the entrance to the woods, nor any exit. Looking up, he could see splinters of sky shining through the treetops.

Sighing, John packed up his things and kept on walking. He tried not to think of home and the trouble he would be in when he returned. Mum didn't like his adventuring. She wanted him to spend more time with his peers, even tried to get him to join the local church group. John, of course, refused, and then proceeded to run out.

Yes, Mum would indeed be pissed, and Father too, probably, but he needed to focus on finding the Manor.

After an hour or so of trudging through the forest, John saw light up ahead. He quickened his pace and soon found himself in a grassy field littered with wildflowers and overlooked by a giant mansion.

Although it was still bright outside, the house seemed to be out of place, like it should belong in a horror film or something.

John just stood for a minute, taking in the fact that he really was at the Holmes Manor. It only took him a second to make the decision whether to go on or turn back.

As he walked nearer, he noticed an elderly woman carrying multiple shopping bags, her spindly shoulders arched over.

John raised his voice, "Excuse me, Ma'am, do you need some help?"

The woman turned, "Oh, hello, young man! Yes, yes, a bit of help would be lovely." She handed him a few of the bags, and he smiled at her.

She was short, yet still elegant. Her eyes were bright and blue, and her hair curled in wisps on her head.

"My name is Martha Hudson, who are you?" Martha smiled at John. "How did you get here?"

"I'm John, John Watson, from Fawsley. I decided to go for a walk in the woods and found this."

"Ah, well it's very nice to meet you! We don't often get visitors; the Lord and Lady like to keep to themselves." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Would you like some tea?"

John nodded, and he followed Mrs. Hudson towards the mansion as she chatted away about what a strapping young man he was and the state of the grounds.

When they entered, John was surprised at the darkness. All of the curtains seemed to be drawn and the wallpaper was a deep maroon. There seemed to be a melancholy air around everything. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notices John's curiosity.

"Ah, the walls, Lady Holmes has migranes. She requires absolute darkness most of the time. Of course, the boys don't help, what with their experiments and such."

"The boys?"

"Yes, Sherlock and Mycroft, I think Sherlock is about your age, Mycroft is a bit older. In fact, maybe you should meet with Sherlock someday. He's a lonely boy...doesn't get out much."

"He doesn't go to the public school, does he?" John had never heard of a boy called Sherlock. It was a funny name and he would have remembered that.

"Of course not! The Lord would never allow it. He thinks public schools dumb boys down. Private tutors are flown in for Sherlock, but he doesn't really learn much from them. Sherlock is an interesting boy. He would rather be working on his chemistry experiments and reading the crime books than learning geography and Latin. But let's not talk about him, tell me about yourself!"

John wanted to hear more about this odd boy, but indulged Mrs. Hudson by talking about school and such. He mentioned his family in passing, but tried to focus on himself. He really didn't want to think about them.

"And what brought you out exploring?" Mrs. Hudson asked as they sat down at a large table in the spacious and well-lit kitchen. Mrs. Hudson had brought out a pot of tea and set out two china cups. As she poured the steaming liquid, John began to speak.

At first he was vague, just talking about how he was in the mood for a walk and wound up here, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"One thing I've learned, working in the Holmes house, was how to tell if someone's lying. And I have a strong feeling you're omitting something. Tell me the _real _reason you're here, John."

John was silent for a few minutes, but after a continuous stare from Mrs. Hudson, he finally broke.

He told her about Mum and the drinking and Father's passive attitude towards things. He talked about Harry and his memories of her, and how afraid he was something would happen.

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry."

"I don't want to go back there." John knew he sounded like a spoilt child, but he couldn't help it. Mrs. Hudson had one of those faces that people just tell everything to. John knew she wouldn't tell anyone and might even have some advice.

"I can't help you there, your Mum and Father have custody of you until you're eighteen. But until then, how about you come for tea every day? We can chat about nonsense and just have a wonderful time." Mrs. Hudson gave him a sweet smile.

"That sounds wonderful." John let himself smile for the first time in days, as this new prospect gave him something to look forward to.

John left soon after, but he could swear that as he walked past one of the dark doorways, he could see a pale face slide back into the blackness.

Over next few weeks, John became a regular visitor at the Holmes Manor. He would relax in the warm, soothing atmosphere of the shining kitchen, drinking Mrs. Hudson's perfectly made tea, listening to her chatter away about nonsense. It was a nice break from the tension and anger that waited at home. This is just me being picky about words feel free to ignore.

Mum had been drinking even more recently, and would shout at John if he came home to late. It was always the same: first came the yelling. The "what were you doing" shouts and the "you're such a disappointment" shouts, then came the crying. The "why would you do that" cries and the "this is all your fault, our dysfunctional family" cries. Father would hear them and enter the room, immidiately blaming John for making his mother cry. Eventually, John would be sent to his room and ordered to never stray so far again.

But everyday John went. It became the only ray of light in his life. His visits with Mrs. Hudson became the only enjoyable parts of his life. With the money running low, Mum was forced to buy less liquor, and that made her angrier than usual. Sometimes John would leave for hours, and soon no one noticed anymore. John avoided the shouting and crying, but, in some ways, the silence was even worse. Mum just drank and sat in front of the telly while Father would hunch his shoulders over the bills, trying to figure out a way to pay them all.

Once in a while, as John was walking around the Holmes Manor, he would hear or see people. Sometimes it would be an elegant woman with sweeping black hair just sitting in the dark drawing room-he assumed this was Lady Holmes-other times it was an austere man with thinning hair and vibrant blue eyes who would be reading or writing in the massive library. He never saw either Sherlock or Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson said that Mycroft was away in London, doing some work for the government, but Sherlock was somewhere in the massive house.

After their sixth teatime meeting, Mrs. Hudson asked John if he would like to help out around the house for a spare pound or two. He readily agreed and was soon armed with a dusting rag and some cleaner, wiping down the oaken shelves and mantels that seemed to pop up everywhere. Then, at the end of each day, Mrs. Hudson would hand him two shiny coins which he would put in a little jar in his room, hoping that Mum would never find them.

One day, while he was putting away some books in the library, he heard a door open behind him. Turning, he noticed a tall boy with wild black curls standing in the doorway.

"You must be Sherlock," John said, smiling at him. Sherlock scowled in return. "I'm John Watson."

"Yes, I'm aware. I'm also aware that, unless you wish to return to your alcoholic mother, you'll leave this library so I can read in peace."

John was shocked by this remark. How did he know? Was Martha telling his stories?

"Oh stop that," Sherlock scoffed.

"Stop what?" John retorted, sounding braver than he felt.

"Thinking that Mrs. Hudson told me about you. I deduced it, obviously."

"How-" John began, then, thinking better of it, stopped his train of thought. "Never mind."

"Goodbye," Sherlock said pointedly, moving aside so John could exit.

"Why do I have to leave? Wouldn't you like some company?"

"No. Leave...please," the please as if it was a last minute addition, an attempt at a simple nicety.

"Well, nice meeting you." John moved towards the door. He thought he heard a mumbled "I wouldn't say so" but chose to ignore it.

Sherlock seemed like a boy who knew nothing of common courtesy and conversation. John thought him rude and coarse, and wanted nothing to do with him. He voiced these thoughts to Mrs. Hudson the next day at tea.

"Oh dear, that stupid boy," she remarked after he had finished. "You're right, that he knows nothing of social niceties, but he really is a nice boy. You just have to get through to him."

"I don't want to get through to him. I never want to see him again," John returned.

"What if he wants to see you?"

"Why would he want to see me? He turned me out of the library with spitting remarks about my family. He doesn't seem like the type to have a friend."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that."

There was something about John Watson, Sherlock often thought, that was different. John Watson was special. Not in the way Sherlock was, because no one was like him, but he was special in his own way.

From what Sherlock had learned from listening into John and Mrs. Hudson's conversations, as well as observing him from a distance, Sherlock deduced that John was encased in a shell, hiding his feelings from most people. He was also used to being self-sufficient, and didn't like charity. He was quite cheerful around Mrs. Hudson, smiling and laughing with her, but his eyes got a faraway look in them sometimes, as if he was remembering the reason he was there.

There was something about John Watson that made him harder to deduce than other people, and Sherlock was never one to back down from a challenge.

The second time John ran into Sherlock, it was in the woods of all places. John was trampling home, earlier than usual. Mrs. Hudson had needed to get some medication for Lady Holmes, so John had to leave. He tried to make the walk drag out, moving his feet like lead weights.

A rustling sound came from the bushes behind him, and he turned to see Sherlock hiding behind a tree.

"Hello, Sherlock," John said formally, quietly.

"John," Sherlock replied, although it was more of a whisper.

"What are you doing out here?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock waved John towards him, and began to walk away in an obvious "follow me" gesture.

Thinking it was better than going home, John followed.

Sherlock moved through the trees with ease, much different than Johns bumbling about, stepping on every tree branch. When Sherlock stopped, John lifted his head to see that they were standing in a large clearing in the woods. In the centre of this grassy area lay a small pond with sparkling blue water that rippled in the setting sun.

"This is my pond. It's where I perform some of my experiments." Sherlock's voice was businesslike.

"Very...nice," John said politely, not knowing where this conversation was going.

"No one has ever been here before, save for myself." Sherlock turned to face John and eyed him pointedly.

Ah, now John understood. Sherlock was letting him come somewhere private. But why?

"And you are showing me this?"

"I've never had a friend before. I've never met anyone my own age," The dark-haired boy's voice was soft and he studied his feet as if they were intensely interesting.

There it was. Sherlock wanted a friend. "And you want me to be your friend?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"Okay, we can try it." John gave a small smile. Sherlock's head bounced up almost comically, his grey eyes alight with delight.

"Fantastic! Oh and John I...um...I'm s-sorry a-about, about earlier when-" Sherlock continued to stutter and it occurred to John what was going on. Sherlock was trying to apologize for his earlier comments.

"No, Sherlock, it's okay. I understand," John said soothingly. "How did you know that?"

"Simple deductions, you worked with ease, as if you were used to it, and didn't ask for help when you had to reach for something, so obviously self-reliant. Your clothing wasn't new, but still well-kept so you cared about your appearance although someone else didn't. Grass stains on the knees so unwashed. A mother would wash the clothes but a father-less likely. Add that to the smell of alcohol on your jacket and you get an alcoholic mother."

Sherlock smiled to himself, obviously in his element. "Brilliant," John breathed.

"Really?" Sherlock looked genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, don't you ever get compliments?"

"No, don't have anyone to talk to," Sherlock mumbled, ducking his head again.

"Oh." It was odd. John had never met anyone quite as odd as Sherlock Holmes, but he couldn't find it in himself to leave.

Both boys stood quietly at the edge of the pond for a while, neither wanting to break the companionable silence. Finally, Sherlock broke it.

"John, what do you do in a friendship?"

John was taken aback; not by the question, by the thought of an answer. What _do _you do in a friendship?

"Um, you talk, share stories and funny moments; you tell secrets, because you can trust them; you hang out during the day and know them really well, I guess."

"Oh."

A few more minutes of silence. Yet this time, there was an air of awkwardness hiding beneath the veil.

"So, the deductions, where did you learn it?" John tried to start another conversation. This seemed to be the right thing to say because Sherlock's eyes lit up and his mouth turned up into a wide smile. He looked like an entirely different person from the sullen boy from only a few seconds ago.

"Deducing is easy enough, but you need to get into the habit. Most people see, they don't _observe_. It's the little things that tell you the most about someone. Be it the veins in their hand or the part of their hair, each little thing adds a bit more to the puzzle."

As Sherlock went on to talk about the books he had learned it from, John found himself entranced. Sherlock quickly became ebullient and his grey eyes sparkled beautifully.

Wait, beautifully? Did John just call Sherlock's eyes beautiful?

No, of course not.

Normal people irritated Sherlock that much he had always known. But, until the day at the pond, he had never known how nice it was to feel smarter than other people, and to have someone appreciate it.

At home, Mummy never talked and Father was always working, so it was up to Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft to teach Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson never taught him anything useful and Mycroft was always too smart for Sherlock to outwit. The tutors, also, were a waste of time. None of them knew enough to teach Sherlock anything and they kept trying to discipline him.

Outside of his little world, Sherlock knew nothing. He had never gone to public school and had been to town only a few times, the most recent being the time he decided he hated normal people.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well, sorry for the wait! Had some tech issues...computers still hate me...and I had a massive test so had no time to write (please, someone, explain when I will need trigonometry in life!) Anyway, here's chapter 2, for those of you who waited it out! Hopefully chapter 3 will be up in a week! Enjoy, and reviews are incredible!

Sherlock was fourteen when Mrs. Hudson took him into town.

"Now, Sherlock," she said as they got into the car, "I need some groceries so you can wander around the town centre, but don't go running off. Also, don't irritate the other children, they're not used to your intelligence."

Sherlock had nodded. Mrs. Hudson always gave him praise like that. She the only person who liked his talents. Mummy and Father were too busy and Mycroft was 'above it all'.

When they reached Fawsley, Sherlock jumped out and looked around him. There were so many people! Women walked with large bags in their hands or children on their arms, men laughed with each other or walked with purpose towards the pub at one end.

Fawsley was a small town, so there were only about three main streets in the town centre area. One side was dedicated to small boutiques decked out in flowers and frills, places Sherlock would never step into-ever. There was a large supermarket with sliding doors and trolleys moving back and forth. A dark, wood-paneled pub sat at one corner looking derelict but loved nonetheless, and between a few shops, almost tucked away, lay a small park with lovely trees and flowers. Sitting in the park was an assemblage of children who seemed to be Sherlock's age: the boys playing football and the girls sitting off to the side giggling and smiling.

But there was one place that really drew Sherlock's attention. The bookstore.

Donovan Bookstore was a small shop stuck between a hair stylist's and a lingerie (whatever that was) boutique. The windows were filled with books and Sherlock made a beeline towards it the minute Mrs. Hudson stepped into the supermarket.

The little bell gave a ding as he stepped in, but he was too busy reveling in the smell of books. Father had a library, but Sherlock had already read all of those books. So, he waved to the curly-haired woman at the desk and moved towards the non-fiction section. Sherlock didn't see the point of fictional books, they never helped in real life.

He browsed for about ten minutes before finding a book Father didn't have. It was a deduction book about snooping, which Sherlock though could be very useful. He took a few crumpled bills out of his pocket to hand to the woman at the desk whose name-tag said 'Sally'.

After she handed him the receipt, Sherlock rushed out of the door, excited to read his new book. Even looking at the first page he saw that it could be very useful.

He walked across the street back to the car, but Mrs. Hudson wasn't back yet, so he decided to go sit in the park.

Walking through the gate, Sherlock made his way to one of the empty benches. Curling his feet underneath him as if he was sitting back home in his inglenook, he began to turn the pages, devouring all of the information.

About a half an hour later, Sherlock was halfway through the book and Mrs. Hudson still hadn't returned. The sun was getting lower in the sky and, as ashamed as he was to admit it, Sherlock was scared. He was scared because three boys had just entered the now-empty park and were walking towards him. All of the other kids had been taken by parents, and Sherlock was the only one left.

"'Eh guys, look! It's some sor' o' pansy!" The tallest and burliest of the boys looked about fourteen and spoke with so many elisions it was difficult to understand him.

Sherlock didn't want to get mixed up in anything so he dog-eared the page he was on and began to get up. One of the other boys pushed him back down.

"Oi, 'ere d'ya think yer goin'?" He snarled.

"Away from untoward people like yourselves," Sherlock replied, trying to mirror Mycroft's air of indifference.

"Ah, lil' prick thinks 'es bein' _fancy_ now don't 'e," the third boy laughed, "shall we teach 'im a lesson, boys?"

The other two murmured in agreement, Cheshire smiles gracing their faces. The tallest, whom Sherlock had dubbed Sam, grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him up.

Sherlock's book dropped to the ground and he looked around to see if anyone would help him. However, Fawsley seemed to be deserted for the dinner hour.

Sam laughed and stood Sherlock on his feet. "Your pop e'er teach yeh how 'ta fight like a man?"

Sherlock didn't answer. His father had always been too busy with matters of state to do anything with his sons. Occasionally, Sherlock would be called into the study to tell his father about the things he was learning about.

"Sherlock," his father would begin, looking over his newspaper at the young boy, "what have you learned about recently?"

"Quantum mechanics and using the Heisenberg uncertainty principle to perfect other theorems," Sherlock would reply anxiously.

"Really?" His father's tone was degrading and Sherlock knew he was disappointed.

"I'll try harder," Sherlock said meekly, bowing his head and vowing to study harder and focus on his experiments.

"Good. Now go away, Sherlock, and don't bother Mummy."

Shooed out of the room, Sherlock would bury his nose in book after book, taking in as much information as he could to make his father proud.

Sherlock was snapped out of his memories of class when Sam swung the first punch. His fist connected with Sherlock's jaw and Sherlock felt a bolt of pain shoot up into his brain.

_Pain is only a physical problem. _He thought, _Don't let it bring you down. Put yourself above such trivial things._

So Sherlock shook off the pain and waited for the next punch, which came quite quickly, this time a jab in the gut.

After the first two, Sherlock got his bearings. He couldn't return any punches, but he was thin which made him hard to catch. He wove in and out of Sam's arms, always just a bit out of reach.

His hope was to tire Sam out, but the one problem with bullies was they didn't tire easily.

"You ain't from 'round 'ere, is yeh," Sam said between punches, "yer too much 'o a _pussy _to live 'n these parts. Where's yer mum and dad? D'they not love yeh? I'd 'ate yeh too, bein' as queer as yeh are!"

Sherlock tried to fight as Sam pinned him to the ground, but it was proving difficult as Sam's hands found his windpipe. His breathing became laboured and his efforts to push Sam away were futile.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was one of Sam's friends saying: "I think 'e's had enough 'ere, mate." Sam nodded and got up, but gave Sherlock's jaw one last kick, pushing him into the darkness.

When he awoke, there was no one around. Luckily, from the position of the sun, Sherlock calculated that he had only been out cold for a few minutes. He picked himself up, dusted off the grass stains. Grabbing his book, he ran back to Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson immediately fussed over Sherlock and his cuts and bruises, but he told her it was from an incident with a football. He could tell Mrs. Hudson didn't believe him, but she knew Sherlock well enough not to question it.

They drove home with Mrs. Hudson chattering about the nonsense she bought. Sherlock wasn't really listening, he was, however, rather annoyed with the turn of events. He had been humiliated and beaten, and did not like it one bit. He wondered if all boys were like that.

Sherlock wondered, as they drove through the trees, what all of the names had been about. "Pussy, queer, prick." They all sounded like derogatory terms, and for some reason, Sherlock felt a sick feeling in his gut as he thought of them.

If all people were like that, why bother meeting them?

Sherlock smiled down at the book in his lap. Books didn't humiliate you, that was for sure, and Sherlock liked that about them. This was a story he would remember forever.

Of course, Sherlock didn't tell John about his little escapade, instead he talked about how he had wanted to be a pirate as a young child. This seemed to make John laugh and for some reason, Sherlock liked it. When John laughed, his eyes lit up and his mouth quirked up in a silly way; and small wrinkles formed around his eyes.

So Sherlock strove to make John laugh. Eventually they sat down and lounged about near the pond, exchanging silly stories of their past.

By the time the sun was setting, Sherlock felt like he had smiled more in the past two hours than he had ever before in his life. He liked John a lot.

"Okay, well, I'd better get going," John said getting up with a grimace. Sherlock felt his heart sink but still gave a small smile as he got up as well. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course, friend," Sherlock replied, hoping that was the right thing to say.

John began to laugh, and Sherlock felt himself go red.

"Oh no, Sherlock, not like that, no, it's just, friends don't call each other 'friend'."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied softly.

"No, it's okay, I liked it." John gave him a small smile and Sherlock suddenly felt better.

"Shall we meet at the house tomorrow?" Sherlock hoped John would say yes. He had so much to show his new friend!

"Of course. Bye, friend." With a wink, John was off, bounding away through the bushes and leaving an emotion-filled Sherlock more confused than ever.

Everyday John would go to visit Sherlock. He would say a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson, maybe have a cuppa, but then rush out to the pond. He and Sherlock would spend the hours talking about almost anything.

Sherlock told John about his experiments. John learned all about each study he was performing and how it was coming along. Sherlock loved talking about his experiments, and John loved listening. Sometimes, he would comment on something and the boy would scoff, but other times Sherlock really took his opinion into account.

"An outside eye is very helpful to me, John," he would say when John felt stupid.

Sherlock would ask questions about his family, but learned fast enough that John didn't like to talk about it. Instead, John was asked about life in public school.

"It's horrible, but also nice," John explained one sunny afternoon.

Sherlock gave him a confused look.

"Well, I want to be a doctor, and I like learning, but Father wants me to be a football player and doesn't like my work." John shifted his hands in his lap, getting uncomfortable. "Then there are the kids themselves. All of the football players are popular and, by definition, mean. They don't like me and I don't like them, but Father won't let me quit. So, I have to deal with it as best as I can."

John gave a sigh and turned to Sherlock, who was studying him shrewdly.

"Why would they hate you?" He asked, confused.

"Well," John began, trying to come up with an explanation Sherlock would understand, "I'm not exactly in their group of friends, and they like making fun of other people. I don't bully others so they don't like me. Also, I'm not as good-looking as they are. They're all tall and the girls fawn over them."

"Those aren't thing you should judge people on," Sherlock said, picking at the grass.

"I know, right?" John replied.

"I wouldn't judge you on silly things like that. You're so much better. Why would you care what they think?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't," John replied hastily.

Sherlock kept looking at him, obviously hoping for more an answer.

"Don't you ever care what people think of you? Don't you ever want to please someone, make them happy? That's what it's like. I just, want to please them," John tried to explain.

"But do they matter? If not, why do you have to please them?" Sherlock obviously didn't understand.

"So that they don't bully me! I try to stay under the radar. They leave me alone and I don't try to change things."

Sherlock nodded. "I see. It matters a lot, doesn't it."

"No I-" John started to argue.

"It's true, so stop trying to argue it."

John looked up at Sherlock, deciding to take his advice. It wasn't worth the effort of getting into an argument with Sherlock Holmes, almost invariably, he would win.

"Fine, yes, okay, I care. Is that so hard to believe?" John gave a sigh of defeat.

"Yes, people talk. It's what they do. Yet you can just ignore them, because there are very few people in the world worth your time." Sherlock's tone was partly philosophical and partly sad, as if he was remembering his past.

"Something wrong?" John asked quietly.

"No, nothing, it's okay." Sherlock gave a smile, but John saw through it in an instant. Reaching out cautiously, John grasped Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock looked up, confused, but just squeezed John's hand.

John left the clearing feeling incredibly happy. Sherlock was exciting and new, if not a bit odd.

But when he walked through the door, all of his euphoria washed out of him.

Lying on the floor, her face blue and body convulsing, was his mother.

"_Father!_" He shouted before realizing that his father was working. Tears stinging his eyes he quickly ran to the phone, dialing 999 with shaking fingers. Soon, he heard a calm voice on the line.

"Which service do you require?"

"A-ambulance. My M-mum, I think it's alcohol p-poisoning."

"Your address?"

He gave her the street with a shuddering breath and hung up, rushing back to his mother's side, not sure what to do.

John's mind was reeling. His normally sane and orderly mind, filled with all sorts of facts, was failing him. He reached out and grabbed his Mum's hand, flinching at the clamminess of it.

Luckily, the ambulance came soon, and a nurse asked John if there was anyone else they should call.

"F-father. He works at the f-factory."

"Of course, we'll get him now. Why don't you come in with me and we can wait for your father at the hospital."

John just nodded, too confused to care about being treated like a three-year-old. He followed the nurse to a car that followed the ambulance, still shaking.

They reached the hospital and John was directed to a sterile waiting room while the doctors took Mum away.

Soon, he felt a presence next to him. He turned and saw his father, head in his hands, looking broken and small. John wanted to comfort him, but had no idea how when he was in need of the same thing.

So the two of them sat there, not really talking, but soothed by the other's presence.

After waiting for what seemed like hours, a tall, red-haired man stepped out of a door. He made his way over to John and his father who both stood up quickly.

"I'm Doctor Savon, you must be Hamish Watson and John?"

"Let's not deal with niceties, Dr. Savon, how is my wife?"

"Mr. Watson, I'm very sorry to have to tell you that your wife has passed away. Her blood alcohol levels were too high. Despite 3000 cc of saline we couldn't lower her blood alcohol levels enough to prevent. I'm very sorry for your loss."

John felt his head swim. His mother was dead. The idea was unthinkable, yet here it was in his reality. He really had no idea what to think. He should have been filled with an all-consuming sorrow, feeling pain like no other, but, a tiny part of his brain was feeling a smidge of relief. He knew why, and it scared him.

"Where is she? I just got a call," he heard the voice and turned quickly to see Harry rushing into the room. She took one look at their faces which said it all, and began to cry as well, pulling John into a tight hug. They stood like that for quite awhile, just him and Harry, their father had gone to her room. For some reason, it was more comforting than anything his father could offer.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello, dear readers.**

**For those of you who haven't seen my profile, I'm going on hiatus until school finishes. Due to the load of work and family issues, I'm having some trouble finding time to write. My laptop was also taken away so that adds another layer of difficulty :) Anyway, I'll hopefully continue this story in June, and hope you all won't mind the wait!**

**Terribly sorry, but I'm very glad you all enjoy it so much! I love each and every one of you!**

**-Melissa(It's-Teatime-Somewhere)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello there everyone! Welcome back! That is, if you're still reading this, then thank you! I'm back after terrible finals, and ready to finish the story! I think there will be three more chapters so hopefully I'll finish by the end of the week :) Note, This chapter is un-beta'd so any mistakes are my own. Since it's been a long time, how about a recap?**

**In the last chapter...****Sherlock tells John about his past and John goes home to find his mother dead.**

**Yeah, getting into the feels :) Well, hope you all enjoy this chapter and thanks for sticking aorund!**

The funeral was set for a week afterwards, and John found no time to visit Sherlock. People from all over town came to offer their condolances, each bringing a different casserole.

Finally, John had escaped from the dreary sitting room while his father was talking with a Mrs. Anderson. He rushed out the back door and into the woods, leaping over stumps and bushes. When he reached the Holmes Manor, he quickly knocked on the door, hoping Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock would answer.

However, if his luck wasn't bad enough already, the door was opened by a tall man with a long noes and brown hair, dressed as if he was going to a fancy dinner.

"And who might you be?" He said, his voice drawling and posh.

"John Watson. I'm here to see Sherlock." John tried to push down the sadness that was threatning to spill over. It wouldn't make a good impression to cry in front of this man, whoever he was.

"Ah, yes, Sherlock's been going on and on about you." He gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes and waved John in. "Up the stairs and to your left."

John followed the instructions and opened the door into a large room that was filled with books, beakers, and other bits of clutter. Sitting in the middle surrounded by at least five open books sat Sherlock, his curls falling in his eyes.

Sherlock looked up at the noise and his eyes lit up when they saw it was John. However, when he took in the sadness on John's face, he frowned.

"John, what's wrong?" He asked, standing up and walking past the books to John.

John couldn't say it. He choked up and Sherlock's concer grew. He put a tentative arm on John's shoulder, which promted John to move closer, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock, crying into his shirt.

Sherlock was quite surprised, obviously not knowing how to react. He finally settled on awkwardly patting John's back.

After a few minutes, John pulled away and wiped his eyes, face burning. "Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled.

"What happened?"

"My mum died. I-I just needed to be out of the house," John replied.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, "shall we go get some tea? Mrs. Hudson might be better at comforting you."

John smiled, not mentioning how nice it had felt to be in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand, slipping his slender fingers around John's rough ones. John was surprised at first, but then remembered the boy had no idea how to act around other people. He probably didn't know that hand holding was not the most popular form of affection among boys. And, it was nice.

So John allowed himself to be tugged through the house, down some stairs, and into the familiar kitchen when Mrs. Hudson was bustling around the stove. However, she abandoned whatever she was doing when she took notice of John's tear-streaked face.

"Oh John, what happened, honey?" Sherlock released John's hand as he was pulled into a crushing hug, and John found he was sorry for the loss, but thankful for Mrs. Hudson, who smelled of baking and cinnamon.

"Why don't you sit down and I'll warm up some tea and cake for you," Mrs. Hudson said, moving John towards the table. He took his seat, Sherlock next to him.

Then, in the comfort of the kitchen, John began to talk. He told Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock about finding his mum and all of the sadness that came after. That part was difficult, but once he began he found he couldn't stop.

He talked for what seemed like hours, eventually just telling stories of childhood-some of the few happy memories he had.

At one point, his hand found its way back into Sherlock's, and Mrs. Hudson just smiled.

When he was done talking, Mrs. Hudson gave him a hug and went to clean up the empty mugs and crumbles from the table.

"Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson? Would you mind coming to the funeral? It would mean a lot," John stuttered, hoping it wasn't too needy.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded. "Of course, dear, We'd be happy to support you."

John risked a glance to the boy next to him, and was surprised to see the impassive face that had been on the first time they'd met.

"Will you come?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he slipped his hand out of John's and rushed out of the kitchen.

John just stared at the retreating figure. "What did I do?" He asked quietly.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile, abandoning the dishes and moving to sit next to him.

"Nothing, dearie, I think he just got a bit overwhelmed." Mrs. Hudson's tone was soothing, but John sensed something else underneath.

Trying to stay calm was difficult. John didn't know if he had done something wrong, and hated feeling out of the loop. He felt like he was missing a vital link, like he should understand but was too dumb. It was a familiar feeling around Sherlock, but usually pushed it aside.

"Overwhelmed by what? It wasn't his mum who died," John said, a bit of anger peeking out behind the sadness.

"It's not my place to say, honey, I think he'll explain it soon, if we're lucky. But how about we talk about something a little less morbid?"

John smiled and tried to forget about Sherlock, his mum, and everything else as they discussed one of the more recent football games.

Sherlock didn't know why he ran. John's eyes, so filled with sadness and loyalty, made him nervous. So, he did what he had always done. He ran. He flew out of the kitchen door, only to run right into his brother.

"Sherlock, where on earth are you going?" Mycroft said, holding onto his brother. Sherlock looked up at him with loathing.

"Nothing that concerns _you_," Sherlock replied scathingly.

"Sherlock, you are obviously emotionally distressed. Why don't you tell me where you're going and why," Mycroft continued, steering Sherlock into the nearby sitting room.

"No," Sherlock said. He crossed his arms and stood his ground.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said in a warning tone, "don't be like this."

"When have you ever wanted to help me?"

"I always want to help you, but you never let me," Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

Sherlock then realised that his brother could actually be useful. Where Sherlock knew about the facts, Mycroft understood emotions and how people reacted to situations.

"Fine," Sherlock growled, walking into the ornate room.

Sitting them down, Mycroft gave Sherlock a knowing look. "Explain, dear brother."

"John...he wants me to come to his mum's funeral," Sherlock said cautiously.

"And why is that a problem?"

"Well, I've never been to a funeral! I don't know how to act around people, let alone grieving ones. What if I say something wrong, and John gets mad? I don't want him to be mad at me..." Sherlock trailed off, wringing his hands in his lap.

"So, you care for this boy and want to impress him? Sounds like a bit of a crush," Mycroft tutted.

"It is not a crush!" Sherlock retorted.

"I believe it is, and you could do _so _much better than that imbicile of a boy." Mycroft's tone was demeaning.

"John is incredible and _not _an imbicile," Sherlock spit in return. He tried to stay calm, he knew Mycroft was only saying these things to spite him, but the bad part about having a brother who had perfected the art of reading people was that he knew exactly what to say to make Sherlock scream.

"So _devoted_. If not a crush, _very _caring for merely friends."

Sherlock didn't answer that. He didn't want to give his brother more ammunition. "Why are you even here? I thought you were dealing with that crisis between Portugal and Lithuania and couldn't be bothered to get away," he said instead, attempting to change the subject.

"Indeed, it was cleared up quite quickly. I had my people speak with the leaders over tea and they turned over the bombs rather quickly. Don't you remember what is happening this Friday? We're going to Aunt Celine's for the ball."

Sherlock frowned. Yes, he remembered, but he hated being reminded of it. Aunt Celine was his father's dreadful sister. She always tried to pair Sherlock up with eligible girls during the party, and he had made a sort of game of seeing how fast he could get away from all of them each year.

"I despise Celine," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, we all do. Yet we must go if we wish to be in favour in the eyes of the world. You know how infulential she is at NATO, dear brother. Yet we can discuss this later. Current issues are much more pressing. What are you going to do about John?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered truthfully, "I just want him to smile again."

"Then support him, clear? If you stay away bad things will happen. At least, for you. I have yet to learn if he returns your feelings, but I shall find out soon enough."

"Will you tell me if he does?" Sherlock asked hopefully. Then, realising what he had said, he spluttered: "not that I care, I don't have a crush on him."

Mycroft just gave a smile. With a nod, he left the room, leaving Sherlock with more on his mind than ever.

The funeral was worse than John could have ever imagined. He was forced into a stiff, black suit and had to listen to his father stutter through a speech, pastors speak of biblical verses that somehow pertained to their lives, and had what felt like hundreds of people walk up to him and say "I'm sorry for your loss."

"No!" He wanted to shout, "you're _not_ sorry for my loss because you _don't _understand what I've lost!"

But, of course, he just smiled and thanked them, ready to move on to the next person.

Mrs. Hudson appeared near the end, enveloping him in a huge hug. John was utterly relieved she didn't say anything, no words of comfort or gobbets about how great life was. Instead, she held him, saying nothing.

When she pulled away, John saw prickling tears in her eyes.

"Never such innocence; never before, or since," She whispered softly. John didn't know what the words meant, but they had a soothing quality to them.

"He's out back, if you want," she continued, pointing to the door.

John knew immediatly who she was talking about. He gave his father a nod and a quick, reassuring smile to a teary Harry and made his way past the throngs of well-wishers out to the back of the funeral home.

Sitting under a tree, legs drawn up to his chest, sat Sherlock, dressed in a slim black suit. When he saw John, he stood up, but his eyes were still glued to the grass.

"John, I don't know...I mean, I didn't mean to..."

John smiled at Sherlock's attempt at an apology. "It's okay."

"No it's not!" Sherlock said, finally getting a hang of his words and looking up. "I left you. I was thinking only of myself. I don't-I'm not good with dealing with people, and I just-I was selfish!" Sherlock nearly tore his hair out. "See? And now I'm burdening you with these trivial issues while I should be consoling you!"

John stopped Sherlock with a hand on the cool wrist. "Sherlock, don't worry. I understand. It's new for you, and you're confused."

"But I'm _never_ confused! I've read enough books to understand everything! But w-why can't I understand you?"

"You don't need to understand everything, Sherlock, some things can be left to the unknown."

Sherlock gave John a hesitant look. "I-I'm very sorry about your Mum's death. I don't like seeing you sad."

There was something about the childlike innocence that came with those words that made John move closer and pull Sherlock into a deep hug. Sherlock's long arms quickly wrapped themselves around John, not unlike an octopus. It was different than their previous hugs because Sherlock was not standing as stiff as a post this time.

When they pulled apart, Sherlock's face was red.

"It's okay," John said softly, "I'm just glad you're here." They gave each other a smile, still standing close enough to make the moment more than that of a mourner and his consoler.

John heard a shout from the funeral parlour and turned to see Harry waving him back inside.

"Sherlock, I'd better go," John said sadly, not wanting to leave his friend.

"Um, John, one thing," Sherlock said quietly. John looked at Sherlock questioningly.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"My horrid Aunt is having a sort of party this Friday, and I was wondering if you would accompany me to make the party less miserable."

John smiled at Sherlock. "Yeah, that would be cool, I guess."

Sherlock broke into a large grin. "Excellent! I'll see you then? Meet at my home at nine in the morning. Aunt Celine lives in London and we have to go early. Also, we'll be staying the night, so bring whatever you need. Also, I assume you need permission? Get that too."

Sherlock continued to ramble about details before John shut him up by grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. "That's great, Sherlock, and I'll see you then. Now, I have to go listen to more people say "I'm sorry for your loss" over and over again. It's _so _tiring, but I'll have to suffer through it." With a final smile, he let go of Sherlock and walked back to the building, suddenly looking forward to the next week a bit more.

The week leading up to the party was anything but exciting. John spent his time trying to avoid his father, who was getting more touchy by the day, and escape the morbid attitiude of the whole house. He only got out to Sherlock's once because his dad had to go see about the will arrangement.

They had started out talking about normal things, but slowly got into deeper territory.

"Sherlock, are you telling me you've never been into town? Even for you I find that hard to believe," John began when Sherlock had told him that little fact.

"Well, I have bad memories associated with it," Sherlock mumbled in return.

John looked up sharply. "How bad?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied, "it doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, I'm your friend. Why can't you tell me?"

"Because." Was the petulent reply.

John reached over and took Sherlock's hand, squeezing it gently. He knew it felt weird for him but he also understood that human contact calmed Sherlock down.

"Tell me, Sherlock," he said quietly.

"W-when I was fourteen I went into town with Mrs. Hudson and got beaten up by some older boys and almost died," Sherlock said in a rushed voice.

John just gaped at him. "Beat up?" he whispered, "why?"

"Because I was weird and different. I didn't fit into any one of their nice little categories, and they didn't like that," was the reply.

Sherlock pulled down the collar of his shirt to show two dark circles, fading away, on his windpipe.

"They're still there? They_ choked_ you?" John said increduously. Sherlock just nodded.

"So, bad memories," he said in conclusion.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," John murmured.

"It's perfectly okay, John."

"No, it's not! I can't believe it!"

"It was in the past, calm down."

"Did you go to the police and report them?" John was pacing around the field. He hated the idea of Sherlock getting hurt.

"Why bother?" Sherlock scoffed, "they wouldn't have been able to do anything. Can we move on?"

John had a hard time keeping a calm demeanor like Sherlock, but he tried to give Sherlock a reassuring smile.

"Okay, I guess. I still don't like it, but I'm glad you told me," he said quietly.

"Friends share secrets, right?" Sherlock said carefully. John smiled and squeezed his hand.

"So," John began starting to change the subject, "the party tomorrow. Dad said I could go, but what kind of party is it?"

Sherlock smiled at John's obvious attempt, but played along nonetheless.

"Celine is an obnoxious woman whose husband died three years ago. He left her a massive fortune which she uses to influence world affairs and plan terrifying parties. She always tries to find me a," he shuddered, "_girlfriend_."

John laughed only Sherlock would be frightened by the prospect of a girl. "That doesn't sound horrible. I bet you're overracting."

"It's not only that, the whole family will be there, and they're the most obnoxious people on earth. You think I'm intrusive and blunt? I know you do, no point in lying. Well, they're even worse."

John smiled. "Well, I wouldn't want you to suffer alone." Sherlock smirked. "What do I wear?"

"I highly doubt you have anything perfect for the situation. However, we can find something in London for you," Sherlock said, looking John up and down. John felt uncomfortable having Sherlock appraising him like furniture, but let it happen anyway.

"Well, I can't wait," John replied, excited for this outing. He had never left Fawsley, but this was his chance to see London.

After more mindless talking, Sherlock told John he had to revisit on of his experiments, and was forced to cut their meeting short. With a small smile, he lept up and left, leaving John to walk home alone.

Thursday came and went, and soon John was leaving his house to go over to the Holmes'. Harry had left earlier, talking about Clara missing her and such. His father had just given a small nod when he had left, still in a depressed mood. The factory had given him time off, and he had spent it staring at a blank tv.

With a sigh, John grrabbed his overnight bag and left, walking down the now well-worn path through the woods. When he reached the clearing, he saw a long, black car idling in front of the house. Bags were being loaded and Lady Holmes was standing near it, her hands on her head. Mrs. Hudson walked out a side door with her arm on Sherlock's shoudler, and John made his way over to them.

Sherlock immediatly brightened as John came near. "You came!" He cried, as if he wasn't thinking he would come.

"Of course, I wouldn't miss it," John replied with a smile. "Are you coming, Mrs. Hudson?"

"No, dear, I've got to look after the manor. I hope you boys have fun! It's so nice that Sherlock has a friend to go with him, he always dreads these things so much. And now he's been bouncing off the walls in anticipation," she said with a chuckle.

John snickered at the thought of Sherlock bouncing off the walls for anything, save maybe an experiment that he discovered. Sherlock, on the other hand, turned bright red and frowned at Mrs. Hudson.

"Enough chatter," he called, breaking their giggling, "we should get in the car. Mummy would hate to be late. She's one of the few people who can put up with Aunt Celine."

John nodded, trying to stifle his giggles, and followed Sherlock to the car. Giving his bag to a man in a suit, he followed sherlock into the dark brown interior of the car, leaning back into the plush seats. He had never been in a car as fancy, and wanted to revel in the feeling, as he was sure it wouldn't happen again.

They were followed by Lady Holmes and two men, the first of which was the one who had greeted John on _that _day.

"Mummy, Father, Mycroft, this is John Watson," Sherlock said loudly.

Lady Holmes opened her eyes and gave John an apprasing look before nodding slightly and leaning back into the seat. Lord Holmes didn't say anything, keeping his eyes glued to a manilla folder. Only Mycroft gave John a smile.

"Yes," he drawled, "we've met."

Sherlock gave a curious stare. "When?"

"One day when John was _very _distressed. Which reminds me, how is your sister. I assume she is back with her girlfriend?" Mycroft sniffed and reached for a bottle that was sitting in the side of the door. He pulled it out and quickly poured three glasses of amber liquid, handing one to each of his parents and keeping one for himself. "Brandy, John? Although I suspect not due to the, ah, issues invlolving it in your past."

John was speechles. No wonder Sherlock hated his brother.

"Mycroft! Must you torment him?" Sherlock shouted.

"Sherlock, quiet. Remember your mother," Lord Holmes reprimanded.

Sherlock slumped back in his seat, still obviously angry at his brother.

"I do apologise, Mr. Watson, I didn't mean to upset you," Mycroft said in a tone that clearly siad he wasn't sorry at all.

John nodded coldly. "It's okay," he said calmly. The words didn't hurt him as much, he was used to Sherlock's antics and it seemed like his brother was no different. But the laid-back attitude that surrounded Mycroft was a bit off-putting and somehow made John hate him.

Sherlock must have noticed his annoyance because he reached over and grabbed John's hand, trying to calm him like John had done so many times before. John felt the familiar warmth spread through him. Mycroft raised his eyebrows but said nothing, for which John was incredibly grateful. He had known the elder Holmes brother for no more than twenty minutes and was already aggravated with him.

"So, John," came the surprising lilt of Lady Holmes' calm voice, "how is your father doing? It must have been a great shock for him. Is he coping alright?"

John sighed. Of course they would know all about his family. They were the Holmes family, for God's sake.

"Yes," he replied after a minute, "he's doing fine."

"Well I'm glad Sherlock could find a nice boy to be with," she turned to him with a simpering smile, her eyes opening for a few seconds to show him the same striking, blue eyes that grace Sherlock.

"I'm glad to be here," John replied, feeling that it was the only sutable response.

Lady Holmes nodded and closed her eyes once more.

John turned back to Sherlock to find him glaring at his brother.

"Sherlock," he murmured, "it's okay. I understand you are all insane and intrusive. I'm used to it, what with being around you all the time. Calm down, okay?"

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, but his shoulders eventually relaxed and he exhaled a deep gush of air.

The rest of the two-hour trip passed in silence. John watched the countryside fly by, his had still loosely intertwined with Sherlock's, neither of them wanting to break contact.

Finally, John saw the trees switch to buildings and they entered the city limits of London, immediatly caught up in the traffic. John, of course didn't mind a bit. He enjoyed watching the people rush past on the sidewalks, engrossed in their lives. He was intrigued by the weird people that walked through the city, the crazy clothing and hairstyles that wove through the suit-wearing business people.

Sherlock, however, was having none of it. He was tapping his free hand impatiently and seemed on the verge of asking his prents when they would get there like a child. Finally, they arrived at a large house on a tree-lined road. The car pulled into the circular driveway and quickly opened the door, allowing everyone to trample out, John with less grace than the rest of them.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, holding him back, "please don't get scared by Aunt Celine. She's terrible to everyone, and you won't be an exception. So, I'm sorry in advance for anything she or anyone else says."

John laughed. "Thanks, Sherlock, I'll be fine."

With that, they walked forward into the house. Upon entry, John was struck by how _massive_ the house actually was. Sure, it looked large on the outside, but it was even bigger on the inside with a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of a grand entry hall, draped by curling staircases on either side.

John's coat was taken by a man in a suit who gave him a short bow before retreating into the shadows.

"Welcome, Holmes'. It's a pleasure to see you again," came a call from on top of the stairs.

John looked up to see a tall, graceful figure near the top. Gliding down the stairs, John had plenty of time to look at her, since she was moving at a snail's pace.

Celine Holmes had golden blonde hair that was curled up into a bun on her head, a few strand hanging down to frame her pointed face. Her eyes were ice blue and calculating, similar to Mycroft's. She was dressed in a blue gown that made her movements as fluid as water, and a delicate diamond necklace sat on her neck. However, as beautiful as she was, John knew there was something else. Eventually, he figured out what it was.

Celine Holmes was stunning, and she knew it and how to use it to get what she wanted.

"Celine, always a pleasure," Lord Holmes said, taking her hand and giving it a kiss as if he was greeting the quen rather than his sister.

"Oh Sherrinford, it's been too long." Her tone was simpering, but her eyes were cold. She greeted Mycroft in a similar fashion, but it changed when she reached Lady Holmes.

"Veronica, lovely to see you, dearie," she said with a smile that reached her eyes. She reached in and met Lady Holmes in a brief hug that was intimate compared to her greeting to her own brother.

"And you as well, Celine," Lady Holmes returned, giving a true smile. Celine then turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, wonderful," Celine siad coldly, holding out her hand in a similar fashion to that of Mycroft and Lord Holmes. Yet Sherlock, always the defiant one, gave it a firm and brief shake instead of a kiss, not even giving her a verbal response.

Celine hesitated for a second, but put her hand out as well to John.

"Hello, I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you...?"

"John," John filled in quickly, giving her hand an awkward-feeling kiss, "John Watson."

"Ah, Sherlock's new _friend_."

John heard the sarcasm on the word friend, but chose to ignore it.

"Well," Celine siad, stepping away from John, "I assume you remember where your rooms are, why don't you go unpack and then we can have tea and discuss the past. I'll show John to his room." She gave John a smile as if she was ready to eat him, and John suddenly felt very nervous.

"I can help John find his room, Celine," Sherlock said between gritted teeth, obviously trying not to let his anger get the best of him.

"Oh Sherlock," Celine said with a tinkling laugh, "I can handle this."

With that, she grabbed John's arm and pulled him up the stairs.

As they rounded a corner, Celine loosened her grip on John and linked their arms, ambling down the carpeted hallway.

"So, John, have you followed your sister on her path to homosexuality and alcoholism? Or only one...?" she let the question trail off into the air.

"What?" John was more confused than ever, yet extremely glad Sherlock had prepared him for her intrusiveness.

"Oh, dear John, please don't tell me you don't notice it. The way you two look at each other, even holding hands! You're the msot lovestruck, idiotic, teenage boy I've ever met."

"I don't fancy Sherlock," John said tightly. _Obviously_. He reassured himself mentally.

"Of course not," she replied in a tone that clearly meant otherwise. "Yet I must warn you, Sherlock is a voliatle boy who really has no respect for the feelings of others. I would stay away if I were you."

They had stopped in front of a room and Celine turned to face John.

"Don't make a mistake and go falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, it will only lead in heartbreak," she said crisply.

With a smile, she left, leaving John to deal with his new room, the attitiude of Celine, and the headache that seemed to be coming on due to the amount of knowledge of him random strangers had.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ehllo once again! I've decided to finish off the rest of the chapters before I begin my travels so you don't have to deal with a drastically long wait in between chapters. (I'm headed to France and Germany!) Anyway, I'll just get these out, un-beta'd, and when I return (because my beta is _also_ in Europe) we will touch up these chapters :)**

***phew* hope you understood that! Here's chapter 4, expect 5 & 6 tomorrow!**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

Sherlock knew it was a bad idea to let John go with Aunt Celine, but he had no choice. Celine got what she wanted-no argument. He frowned as he watched Celine steer John up the stairs before slumping off to his own well-worn room. Each of them had a room in the massive house that was used for this night only.

Soon, he was settled in and decided to go find John to take him out. John really did need a suit, and it would be better to get one sooner rather than later. So, he grabbed his coat and made his way through the house to find the room he assumed John had been put in.

He gave a swift knock on the door before entering, trying to be courteous like John suggested. He found John sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

"John, are you alright?" he asked softly.

John looked up suddenly. "What? Oh, yeah, just thinking."

Sherlock didn't want to pry, he could just figure it out later.

"Would you like to accompany me out to shop for a suit for you?" He asked cautiously.

"Um, sure, I guess," John replied hesitantly, wondering why Sherlock was nervous.

"Let's go, then," he said as he swept out of the room with the unmistakable sound of John following him. He walked briskly down the stairs.

Traliling behind him, John followed Sherlock into the sleek towncar.

"Oxford Street," Sherlock called to the driver, relaxing back into the plush interior and moving his fingers to his temples.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked cautiously.

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock murmured, rubbing circles into his head, "why?"

"You seem a bit tense. Well, you've _seemed_ a bit tense since we got to Celine's. Want to talk?"

"No, just the family. Nothing worth your time," Sherlock returned snarkily.

John closed his mouth, wondering what made Sherlock so upset. Sure, Celine was a bit pushy and posh, but everyone had a weird aunt of uncle, right? John was struck with memories of his Uncle Bobby who, after every Christmas dinner, would proceed to get famously drunk and give extremely honest, and most likely hurtful, opinions of every member of the family, one of the more famous ones being when he called his wife a "frigid bitch" who he would "be glad to be rid of". Anna left him soon after. Sherlock was acting like they were the spawn of the devil himself.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're okay?" He turned to the boy in question.

"Oh look," Sherlock said, blatantly avoiding the question, "we're here."

John followed Sherlock out of the car on to a bustling street. Women in fur coats and high heels pranced about-their hands filled with multi-coloured bags. Business men with their phones next to their ears rushed past, muttering quickly. Taxi cabs flew past and cars honked, causing John to feel quite small. With a smile to Sherlock, he followed the taller boy into the throng of people.

Their first stop was a posh-looking place called Sherlinwood & Co. It had the air of a museum with suits lit up by backlights and blank walls. Pieces of black and white photography sat on some walls, and the woman who greeted them looked like a museum attendent.

"Boys," she said in a condescending tone, "are you sure you're in the right store?" John placed her accent as Eastern European or Russian. Her dark hair was swept back into a bun and she gave them a sharp look from under her thick eyebrows.

"Yes," Sherlock began, pulling out a card. He flicked it towards her, his mouth set in a grim line. "I'm here on the account of Mycroft Holmes."

The woman's eyes lit up. "Ah, a Holmes? Welcome, sir. My name is Madame Krisyeva, and I will be glad to help in any way." With a snap of her fingers, another attendant walked up. "This is Miss Lotsky, she can help as well."

Sherlock nodded. "I will need suits for my friend and I, prefferably suitable for a state dinner. Price does not matter." With a last glance at Sherlock, John felt himself being swept away by Miss Lotsky for an hour of stripping and redressing in various levels of uncomfort, trying on at least sixteen different suits.

"Ah, no, that won't work. Makes you look chunky," Miss Lotsky said as John modeled a navy blue suit. "No, let's try this one." She thrusted another suit at him and shoved him back into the changing room. John looked around wildly but couldn't spot the dark-haired boy anywhere near them. He yearned for a familiar face; this was getting out of hand.

Finally, Miss Lotsky seemed to be content. "Ah yes, this will do _very_ nicely." She smiled like a cat and motioned for John to turn around. Facing the mirror, John caught the first glimps of himself.

His tuxedo was a simple, three piece suit. The crisp white shirt was covered with a pale grey vest and a slim black tie. His jacket was a darker grey, nearly black. It was buttoned twice near the waist and made him look a lot slimmer. Overall, he looked tanner than ever with golden hair, like a man who belonged in the shop. John smiled.

"Thanks," he said.

"You look fantastic," Miss Lotsky said, "I'll ring it up for you now."

John took off the suit and moved towards the counter, finding Sherlock there, bored as ever. The grand total came tp a startlingly high number, but Sherlock didn't even blink as he handed over the platinum card.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said as he noticed John's expression, "Mummy spends more than this in an hour on her nails."

John just nodded, knowing he shouldn't be surprised.

When the transaction was finished and Sherlock had the boxes delivered to Celine's, they left the store, John grateful for the fresh air.

"Well, that wasn't so painful," he said, smiling at Sherlock's scowl. "Lighten up, will you?"

Sherlock just muttered to himself. John decided not to press the issue and just enjoy his time in the city.

After leaving the store, Sherlock had the bags put in the car and sent back home. He was about to follow them, but John grabbed his hand.

"Sherlock, let's explore!" John cried, looking around. He wanted more time to look around the incredible city.

Sherlock sighed, but indulged him. The two fled from the car, John dragging them up and down all sorts of streets, visiting every tourist trap and collecting all sorts of memorabilia. John laughed as Sherlock tried on an "I heart London" sweatshirt and Sherlock retaliated with a pair of truly hideous Union Jack sunglasses.

Once they had exhausted their funds on random objects, John decided to take a walk through Regent's Park. Slipping his hand through John's, Sherlock lifted his face to the sun to catch the rays, not unlike a flower yearning for light. John sighed inwardly as Sherlock showed off his beautiful neck. John loved that neck.

Sherlock turned his head, noticing John's gaze. "Something interesting?" He asked.

John blushed and looked away. "No, nothing."

Sherlock looked confused, but brushed it off, instead enjoying the time spent away from his family.

John was elated about Sherlock's mood. His friend, who had had so little social interaction it was almost adorable how naive about some things he was. However, Sherlock eventally fell in love with London just as he had, and the two boys glided through the park in happiness.

Sherlock was enjoying his time with John, yet was still confused about John's feelings during the start of their day. Why had John been upset? He voiced his thoughts to John, whose smile immediatly dissapeared.

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock," John muttered, letting go of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock panicked. "Did I do something wrong?" He asked, fearful of the response.

John sighed. "No, it's not you. I just...I have a lot on my mind."

"I do too," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked up. "What?"

"I have a lot on my mind as well. I have a lot of...different things rushing around my mind and I can't seem to make sense of any of it," Sherlock sighed, exasperated.

John smiled. "Have you ever tried to organise your thoughts? Seperate them into different sections?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. What a novel idea! "Yes! I could organise it into different rooms!"

"Yes!" John laughed, "like a mind house."

"John, I have too much in my mind for simply a house, it must be a _palace_." Sherlock grinned at John. The two had stopped beneath a shady tree.

"Will I have a seperate closet?" John asked coyly.

Sherlock blanched. "Don't be silly, John," he scoffed. At the look on John's face, the look of sadness, he quickly rephrased. "You will have your own wing."

John smiled once more, his heart leaping. Sherlock loved that smile. It was the smile that never failed to make his spirits fly. He hoped to see that smile forever.

As the sun began to set, John and Sherlock returned to Celine's. As they arrived, John was swept away from Sherlock in a sea of servers and decoraters, preparing for the ball. Before Celine could stop him, John rushed up to his room to get ready.

After putting the suit on just like Miss Lotsky showed him, John stepped out of his en-suite bathroom, deciding to wait for Sherlock before heading down. He wasn't about to attend a state-like dinner without someone who was knowlegable about these sorts of things.

However, as he walked through the door, he saw Sherlock standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Sherlock's suit was similar to John's in the fact that it was a three-piece, but while John's was grey Sherlock's was a deep blue, bringing out his eyes. The suit showed off his slim body and his hair fell in soft waves around his eyes. John noticed the undone bowtie at his neck, but stood as still as a statue for what seemed to be ages, just observing the beautfiul man in front of him.

"John..." Sherlock said, staring at him with the same sort of reverence, "I.." A sudden knock on the door sent both boys out of their trance.

"John? Sherlock?" came the voice of Mummy Holmes, "are you almost ready?"

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock replied, turning away from John for one second. When his eyes returned, he took a step closer.

"John," he murmured, ""I can't remember how Madame did my bowtie at the shop. Mind helping me?"

John gave a weak smile, glad for all of the seemignly excess directions Miss Lotsky had given him. He walked closer and took both ends of the short tie, feeling Sherlock's breath on his face. They were so close he could almost...no. No need for those thoughts. John shook his head clear and focused on tying the bowtie. Once it was done, he tugged at the edges.

"There, all set," he said, quietly. "You look fantastic, by the way."

Sherlock gave a nervous smile. "As do you," he replied properly.

"Shall we?" John extended his arm with a flourish, as a joke. Yet he was utterly surprised when Sherlock, in fact, took his arm. Well, they laced fingers, but good enough. Hand in hand, the two walked down to the party.

Sherlock smiled as he looked down at hs hands, interlaced with John's. It was a nice feeling, he decided, having this attraction to John. He detested Celine's parties, but John might make them bearable.

They entered the main hall at precisely eight o'clock, smiling at the greeters. Sherlock introduced John as his friend and many people gave a knowing smile. Sherlock didn't understand it, but he was glad no one made any rude comments. It would be just like his family to do something like that.

"John! Sherlock! So good to see you at last!" Someone cried from across the room. Sherlock turned to see Celine with a new man on her arm walking towards them. "You do clean up nicely, Mr. Watson," she said, casting John a predatory glance. John shuffled awkwardly and Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"Thank you, Celine," John replied properly.

"Well, boys, don't let me keep you! Go enjoy yourselves." With one last smile, Celine was swept away, leaving John and Sherlock awkwardly in the middle of chatting couples.

"Shall we go find somewhere to sit?" Sherlock murmured into John's ear. John felt a spark of electricity, but nodded and let Sherlock move him over to a secluded corner. They could still see the main ballroom, but the small table and chairs were untouched by gossamer and glitter, unlike the rest of the room.

The two sat in a companionable silence for a while, but John could soon see Sherlock getting antsy, urging for something to do.

"Sherlock, mind deducing some people for me?" John asked casually.

"What?" Sherlock was confused.

"You know, use your skills of deduction to tell me about those people," John explained, waving to the dancers. Sherlock's eyes lit up at the idea, and his head whipped around to take in as many details as he could.

"Well," Sherlock began, pointing to a woman in a long, pink dress, "That woman is from America, most likely southern California, judging by her tan and hairstyle. She has two sons and is recently divorced, although she and her husband have had an unhappy marriage for some time. She is here on part of the American Ambassador, probably as his secratary, judging by her hands. Oh, she's also having an affair with...that man." Sherlock pointed to a man in a dark blue suit, and John noticed the coveted glances the two were sharing. "She also comes from a poor family but probably worked her way upt he social ladder using her looks."

"Brilliant," he breathed. Sherlock gave him a small smile, unguarded and silly. "What about him?" John pointed to a withering old man standing in the corner.

"Former diplomat from the French government, comes from money as you can see by his ease in this setting. He has had three wives and is currently married to the fourth. He has a small dog and no children." Sherlock paused as the man was approached by a servant bearing a cell phone. "He's getting a call from his wife now, see how his face lights up? Oh, but something's wrong...something terrible just happened." Sherlock looked quizzically at John. Both boys stared as the old man left the room in a rush, his face contorted in fear.

An awkward silence fell upon the table once again.

"Sherlock, that was still incredible," John said, smiling. "Now...her."

For the rest of the evening, Sherlock deduced people. John loved watching his eyes dart around the room, looking for interesting stories. He told John about three affairs, one spy, two members of the Royal Household, and four divorces. John smiled and laughed the entire time, enjoying the prideful smile that graced Sherlock's face each time he praised him.

As Sherlock finished deducing an ex-KGB agent from Russia, Celine stepped up onto a podium.

"My good friends," she began, calling the attention to her, "it is time, once again, for the customary couples waltz. Find your partner and we shall begin!" With a smile, she stepped down to a graituous applause.

"Dance?" John muttered as Sherlock stood up.

"Yes. Every year, the last dance of the night is for all the couples. I ususally leave before it, but we seemed to be having a nice time." Sherlock smiled bashfully. John was surprised at this new side of Sherlock he was seeing.

"Would you, I mean...we don't have to...but w-would you like to dance?" Sherlock continued, looking down at his shoes.

John felt elated. "Yes," he replied, nodding and standing up, "but I warn you, Iv'e never danced a day in my life."

With a chuckle, Sherlock lead him onto the dance floor. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock slid an arm around his waist and pulled him close, closign the space between them. John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, smiling up at him. They swayed around the room, Sherlock twirling them every which way. The music was loud and melodious, giving very little time for talking, but a lot of time for John to think about everything that had happened.

He knew he was attracted to Sherlock, that much was obvious. The boy had a charm unlike anoyone John had ever met. He was beutiful, with his inky hair and translucent skin. He was also very smart, a genius of sorts. His humour was a bit off, but just from lack of use. And then there was his inside. John had figured out early on that Sherlock's cold appearance was just a curtain, and that he was actually very vulnerable inside. His past must have shocked him into a shell, and John had to slowly draw him out.

Dancing with Sherlock made John forget all of the terrible things in his life, and it was over far too soon. With a sigh, Sherlock released John and they applauded the musicians. Celine gave another short speech, thanking everyone for visiting, and the party began to disperse.

John followed Sherlock out of the ballroom and they walked up the staircase, John feeling lightheaded and carefree. He laughed as Sherlock scowled at his brother's retreating figure, smiling at the surprise of the boy that someone laughed with him.

The walk to John's room ended quickly, and the two stood for a moment outside the door.

"I had a lot of fun, Sherlock," John said quietly, "thank you."

"No, thank _you._ I've never enjoyed those, but you made them incredible," Sherlock returned, standing very close to John.

Without thinking, John reached forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. It was a simple kiss, nothing more than a chaste peck, but John felt as high as a cloud. At first, Sherlock tensed up, but then he let himself relax into the kiss. Sherlock tasted musky with a hint of the wine they had drunken. John found that he liked it a lot.

Finally, they released each other, John bright red. "I-I um..." he trailed off awkwardly. How was one to explain their sudden feelings for a friend? A friend who had probably never kissed anyone before? "I'm sorry," he finished softly.

"Um, it's okay...goodnight." With a rush, Sherlock ran down the hall. John walked into his room and gritted his teeth, suddenly swarmed with anger. How could he have been so stupid? He had probably just ruined their friendship. Pulling at his hair, John lay back on his bed, not even bothering to undress. He knew he would get no sleep, what with all the things on his mind.

Sighing, John prepared himself for a long night.

When John pulled him into the kiss, Sherlock couldn't lie and say he wasn't a bit scared. No one had ever touched him there before. Sure, he knew about kissing, but he had always found it to be a disgusting act. Lips were not meant to meet, filled with germs and such. Yet as the kiss continued, Sherlock found himself enjoying the taste of John's lips, how soft and malleable they were.

When they broke apart, Sehrlock suddenly became very nervous. Did John regret it? Sherlock became very scared as John stuttered through an apology. With a rushed goodnight, he ran down the halls, away from John.

As he entered his room, Sherlock put his hand up to his lips. They felt tingly and swollen. Overall, it had not been an unplesant experiance. Yet what did it mean?

Sherlock looked back on the night, thinking of John's smiles and laughs. Was John attracted to him? Sherlock sure was. He had never felt so strong about another human being. Why was it? First, what would John want with him? He was a weird, awkward boy with no knowledge of anythign sociable. Second, why did he like John? John was just a normal person, right?

No, John was anything but normal. He was brilliant and amazing and wonderful and made Sherlock feel like someone cared about his talents and well-being. Sherlock felt whole when he was with John. Sherlock wanted John like he had never wanted anyone else. Instead of shying away from John's touch, he felt himself craving even the smallest gestures. Dancing with John had been incredible, and Sherlock wanted to be that close to him again and again.

Thinking of John, Sherlock got into his pyjamas and got into bed, thinking about what had happened. What if John thought he didn't want the kiss, and would take it back? Sherlock didn't know if you could take back a first kiss, but if John did...well, Sherlock didn't want to think about that. Instead, he drew up all of the happy memories of John and fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello once again! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, I've been stuck babysitting to earn money. Terrible job, and the kids hate me, but it's worth it :) Anyway, I've had absolutly no time to write! However, I should have the next (and last) chapter up by Monday! I also apologise for the shortness of this chapter, but I'm saving stuff for the final! Thanks to everyone who favourited/alerted/reviewed the story, and even those who just read and enjoyed it! You all mean a lot to me! Enjoy!**

When John awoke, he was disoriented for a few minutes. Then, the events of the previous night came rushing back to him and he felt his head begin to bang. Pulling himself out of bed, he began to get dressed, taking as much time as he could to prolong the inevitable. As he buckled his trousers, he heard a knock on the door. Knowing who it was, he sighed and opened it to a bashful Sherlock.

"Hello," he said cautiously, "come in." Sherlock nodded silently and walked into the room.

For a few moments there was silence, but then John gathered his courage and began to speak:

"Look, Sherlock, I'm really sorry about last night. The kiss was uncalled for, and I apologise immensely for it." John said cautiously, looking for some reaction.

Sherlock looked confused. "Uncalled for? Why?"

"Because we're friends. We don't have to be more."

"Oh." Sherlock looked down.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John was suddenly wondering if he had misinterpreted. His heart began to beat a bit faster and he was filled with a cautious hope.

"Well, I liked the kiss. I like _you_," Sherlock admitted quietly. "I...find you aesthetically pleasing and would like to pursue a relationship with you, although I doubt I will be an acceptable partner," he said in a rushed voice, looking down.

It took John a few moments to process the words. Sherlock wanted to be in a relationship. Sherlock liked the kiss. Sherlock found him _attractive._ Yes, it had been an extremely awkward way of wording it, but it was the thought that counted.

The pause in conversation made Sherlock think that it was John's way of saying 'no', but as he moved to walk out, John reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, "you really want to be in a relationship?"

Sherlock nodded, putting his hand over John's.

John's face broke out into a smile and he felt happier than he'd ever felt before. He quickly moved forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock. This time, Sherlock was ready for the odd sensation, and moved his lips, fitting them between John's. He felt John's hands move aroudn his waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock quirked his head, deepening the kiss. He suddenly felt the urge to get as close to John as possible.

Soon, too soon for both of their liking, they broke the kiss, coming up for air. John looked into Sherlock's eyes, noticing how his pupils were blown wide.

"John..." Sherlock began hesitantly, keeping his arms around John, "I hope you know that I'm not very good with...people...and I've never, um..."

John chuckled as Sherlock tried to grasp the words. "It's okay, Sherlock, I understand. We don't have to do anything you don't feel comfotable with."

Sherlock smiled, obviously relieved. "Can we kiss again? I liked it."

John smiled and pressed his lips to Sherlock's once again. He fell into a blissful state, forgeting how much time was going by. After they broke apart, John squeezed Sherlock's hands. "Let's head down, yeah? We should be leaving soon."

Sherlock nodded and lead them down the stairs, letting go of John right before they entered the main hall. John felt himself sigh, but understood why. He didn't want Celine or Mycroft to learn about their...whatever they had. It would only cause trouble.

After a quick and awkward breakfast, Sherlock and John were hearded into the familiar car and whisked away. It was just the two of them, Mycroft had work to do and Lady and Lord Holmes had opted to stay until lunch. They drove and the city flew by and John felt his eyes droop. He hadn't gotten much sleep and Sherlock's shoulder looked _very _inviting. Moving slowly, he let his head fall onto the soft fabric. Sherlock's arm slid around his body and he was soon pulled into the wonderful land of dreams.

John dreamt of Sherlock. He saw flashes of the boy's smile, wisps of his hair. No clear words, but the soothing deep tones were present.

When he awoke, John felt more rested than he had been in a long while. As he reoriented himself with his surroundings, he also realised that he was cuddled into Sherlock's side, the other boy looking terribly uncomfortable.

"Sorry!" John cried, vaulting backwards. Sherlock laughed; a sound John rarely heard.

"No, it was fine," Sherlock replied, smiling.

"Well, thanks. I needed the sleep." Jonh rubbed the last bits of drowsiness out of his eyes.

"Did you have a bad night?" Sherlock questioned.

"No, it's just been an exhilerating morning."

"How so?"

John laughed. "Well, I found out the guy I've fancied for a while does indeed return the feelings. It's a nice exhilerating, but a bit frightening nonetheless."

Sherlock frowned. "Fancy? What do you mean by fancy? How can an adjective used to depict the wealth of someone be used to describe a romantic attatchment?"

_Only Sherlock would make it sound like it came out of a textbook, _John thought. "No, it means you are attracted to them."

"Oh."

The silence was nice, and soon John felt a hand wave its way into his. He grinned and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"John, I hope you know I've never been in a relationship."

John turned to look at his boyfriend. "Really," he replied sarcastically, "I'd never have guessed."

"No, you don't understand," Sherlock said urgently, "what if I do something wrong, or-"

"No, Sherlock, stop there. You could never do anything wrong."

"But-"

"We are not having this conversation. I don't want to hear you put yourself down. You're brilliant and I'll never get tired of you." John chuckled. "In fact, you'll probably tire of me first."

"I could never get bored of you, John," Sherlock said fiercely, grapsing both of John's hands.

"That's nice to know," John said calmly.

Sherlock smiled, pleased at how the conversation had gone, and soon the two were back at home.

Stepping out of the car, John pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"I'd better get home," he murmured, "I'll need a change of clothes." Sherlock sighed, but nodded, and soon John was on his way home.

As he walked down the worn trail, John felt giddy. Everything had turned out so much more wonderful than before. Not only had he been to London, but he and Sherlock were officially boyfriends. _Boyfriends!_

Thinking back to their past, trying to pinpoint the exact moment of attraction, John found not one existed. He thought back to the hundreds of stories of 'love at first sight', and found them all to be faulty. Of course, he and Sherlock weren't in love, but at first he hadn't een liked the boy. Yet now he couldn't imagine life without him.

John pondered all the way home. As he reached the familiar front door, he heard crashing from inside. Carefully, he opened the door, and was hit with the decibels of shouts that came from the living room.

"Get out of my house, Harriet!" John's father shouted. Harry? Harry hadn't been back since the funeral.

"You can't tell me what to do! I can't believe that when I come back to this hellhole of a house trying to reconcile with my family, I get the bloody Spanish Inquisition!" Harry schreeched in response.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my house!"

"I do what I want!"

"I'm serious, Harry..."

The sound of breaking glass crashed through John's paralysed state, and he quickly moved out of the way as Harry came barreling past him and out the door.

"Harry..." John's father called, his eyes sad as his daughter flew from the house. Turning to John, those same eyes turned red with malice.

"What are you looking at? And were have you been? Gone for two days, no note, no nothing? What the _fuck _happened?"

John braced himself for the slap, but none came. He opened his eyes and saw his father's shoulders slump.

"Nevermind," he continued, his voice free of any anger, "I really don't care anymore." With that, he lumbered back into the living room and collapsed on the couch.

As quietly as he could, John crept up the stairs into his room. _Well,_ he thought ruefully, _so much for an enthusiastic weclome home._

Sherlock said a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson before rushing out to his pond. He had a lot to think about, John being the brunt of them all. He needed to classify every bit of information about John, covet it away so he would always remember it. He began to pull up memories, analyzing them and seeing if he could find any attraction in John's eyes.

Oddly enough, there seemed to be many a moment where John had looked at Sherlock adoringly or had moved a bit closer to 's heart lept at this revelation. John really liked him! He was so caught up in his mind he didn;t noticed the boy who walked up next to him.

"Hello," came the voice. Sherlock jumped and moved away. The boy next to him seemed about his age, with snake-like eyes and gelled-back hair. He wore expensive yet nonchalant clothes, as if he had wealth but wasn't flaunting it. "Jim Moriarty, hi," he continued. Sherlock detected a hint of an Irish lilt in his speech.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked, coldly. This boy had no right to visit his pond. Especially while he was thinking about John.

"Oh, just thought I'd visit you. I've been watching you for a while, you're very intriguing." Jim smirked.

"That's nice to know. It's been wonderful to talk to you, but I _must_ be going." Sherlock gave a condescending smile and lept up.

"Oh but Sherlock, I have something you might want."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned around. Jim nodded his head and pulled out a small plastic bag filled with white powder.

Cocaine.

Even though he lived a sheltered life, Sherlock still understood cocaine. He had read books on the subject and the effects it had on different people.

"No, thank you," he replied calmly.

"Sherlock, I know how your mind works," Jim said, his tone simpering, "you have so much going on, your brain running at a million miles and hour. Sometimes you just want to escape from it all. This will help you."

Sherlock thought about that. The bliss would be wonderful. He could never escape from his own mind. This would fix it all.

But John? John had always shown how much he detested the substances his sister used. How would he react to cocaine?

Sherlock debated the two sides while Jim waited patiently. In the end, it wasn't hard at all.

"No. Thank you, but I'd rather not fuck up my mind with substances," Sherlock said briskly.

"Well, if you're sure..." Jim trailed off.

"Compleatly."

Jim smiled and took out a business card. "Give me a ring if you ever reconsider." He slipped the card into Sherlock's top pocket, his hand lingering for a minute too long, and Sherlock felt uncomfortable around someone that wasn't John.

"Positive. Goodbye, Jim."

With that, he left, feeling the need to get away from Jim and the desireable things he had. He had John now, no need for anything else. And John would be happy that Sherlock turned it down. John was always proud of him when he made a good descision.

Still smiling, Sherlock continued into the house, thinking of all the things he could do with John. It was going to be wonderful.


	7. Chapter 7

**Last chapter, here we are! It's been awesome, and thanks to all who have read and enjoyed this story! You all are incredible and that you would even take the time to read this is a wonder. I would like to warn you, this is not a happy ending, but there might be a sequel later in time. No writing for a few weeks, I'm headed to Europe! So, in conclusion to this massive AN, thanks to everyone, hope you liked it, keep reviewing!**

**Special thanks to those who reviewed: _Maddi Paige, TheSoulGiver, theangelsarecoming, InvisibleInk94, AngeloftheMask, _and_, Kit-Kat219_! Love to you all!**

**Still no beta, all mistakes are mine :)**

**Warnings: Drug usage, angst by the bucketload, lots of swearing.**

**Songs, because they really influenced this chapter: "Stay" Mayday Parade, "Feel Good Drag (acoustic)" Anberlin**

**One Year Later**

Sherlock and John were happy. They were more than happy. They were exuberant. Each day after school, John would run through the woods to meet Sherlock. Sherlock would sweep the shorter boy off his feet and kiss him deeply. They would sink the the ground near their pond and spend a while kissing lazily. John would tell Sherlock about his classes and Sherlock would describe his experiments. Really, nothing had changed, save for the fact that these thoughts were now interrupted with kisses.

They hadn't gone any farther than kissing, John had found out soon enough that kissing was all Sherlock could handle.

_It was a week after the party and John came bounding into Sherlock's arms after a ridiculously hard day of classes. Kissing fiercely, John lay them down on the warm grass, his body compleatly covering Sherlocks. Sherlock moaned as John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's warm mouth. John relished in the taste, exploring every ounce that was Sherlock. As Sherlock responded eagerly, John's hands began to roam. He felt Sherlock's limber arms, his smooth chest, and his taut legs. Yet as John move his hand dangerously close to Sherlock's crotch, Sherlock's previously eager mouth suddenly dissapeared and he struggled to get out from under John. Confused, John quickly moved out of the way, and Sherlock curled up into a ball, his body shaking._

_"Sherlock? What happened?" John asked._

_"I-I'm sorry, John, it was j-just too much," Sherlock returned, his face red. _

_Then, John understood. Sherlock had never done this before. Of_ course_ he would want to take it slowly. John felt terrible. _

_"God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock. We can take this as slow as you want," he whispered, moving closer to Sherlock. "I promise."_

_Sherlock picked his head up and gave John a shrewd look. Finally, sensing truth, he uncurled himself and nodded to John. "Okay," he said quietly._

_John gave him a smile and held out his hand. Sherlock looked scared but John just whispered: "nothing more. Not yet." Sherlock put his hand in John's and the two fell to the ground together, simply laying with one another; talking and enjoying the sun._

John smiled at the memory as he lay with Sherlock by the pond. Sure, it wasn't always the best to have a boyfriend who was scared of any sexual interaction, but Sherlock was worth visiting the bathroom for a quick wank a few times a day.

All in all, the past year had been one of the best of his life. His father hadn't done anything crazy, and was slowly getting back to normal. He drank less and workedmore, brining home valuble money to fix up the depleating house. Harry was Harry; she never visited, but he emailed her every once and a while.

Mrs. Hudson had found out about their relationship the minute they walked in the door. She had pulled them into a big hug and offered her congradulations as she put the kettle on. Sherlock explained how it had happened and John could have sworn there were tears in her eyes as Sherlock talked.

Overall, Sherlock had grown into a new person. The sullen boy John had first met had flown away and a bright and excited boy had replaced him. Sherlock was still curious about everything, but now he had John to talk to. He was also less socially inept as John made it his duty to explain everything to Sherlock. Sometimes, it was more like teaching an alien than his boyfriend.

John laughed as he remembered telling Sherlock about what Poptarts were. Said boy, who was currently leaning on John's chest, looked up.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, just memories," John replied.

Sherlock smiled. "About me?"

John pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's head. "Of course."

The two drifted into companiable silence once more, John drifting back into his thoughts. Life with Sherlock really was wonderful. When he was with Sherlock, he could escape all of the troubles that real life held for him. Troubles like choosing a college and future. John was seventeen. He needed to get his life together, figure out where he was going and how Sherlock would facto into that.

Known to no one, John actually had a few ideas running around in his head. However, all of them involved leaving Sherlock. How could he do that? Sherlock was such a major part of his life, he couldn't imagine life without him. Unconsciously, John pulled Sherlock tighter, and Sherlock snuggled into his chest.

"Are you okay," he murmured.

"Yeah," John breathed, "fine."

Pushing his troubles aside, John focused on the present and spending time with his boyfriend.

It was an overcast day in May when John got his letter. It was a stately piece of parchement explaining that he had been accepted into the RAMC. Grinning, he swept out of his house and flew over to Sherlock's, excited to see the look on his boyfriend's face. John had been waiting for so long, going into the RAMC had been one of his dreams. Not only would the government pay for his schooling, he would get to help people and save lives. He knocked on the door and Sherlock opened it, giving John a small smile.

"What's got you all excited?" he asked.

John just kept smiling and handed Sherlock the paper. He watched as Sherlock's eyes took in the information, his own eyes growing wide. He thought he etected a flash of sadness, but Sherlock's grin blinded it away.

"That's fantastic, John," he said quietly, giving John a controlled smile. A part of John questioned Sherlock's truth, but the dark haired boy had never been big on emotions. It was only natural.

"Yeah, it's brilliant." Then, John was _sure_ he saw the sadness. "Are you okay?"

It was gone. "Yeah, fine. When do you leave?" Sherlock smiled again.

"Two weeks." A thought dawned on him. "Sherlock, I'm not deserting you." Sherlock looked up. "It's just for a few years, and I'll visit every holiday. And besides, we have email." John took Sherlock's hand. "I'll never leave."

Sherlock visibly relaxed and squeezed John's hand in return. "Shall we celebrate?" he asked, giving Jhon a knowing smile. John nodded and followed Sherlock into his room, pulling Sherlock into a deep kiss as the door closed.

"I'll miss you," he murmured between kisses. " But it's my dream."

"I understand," Sherlock whispered, kissing back fiercely.

Gone. John was leaving. To be in the Army. _The Army._

As soon as John left, Sherlock flew around his room, pulling things off shelves and knocking over stacks of books. He sat down in the middle of the disaster, fuming and depressed, his mind trying to find an escape.

John was leaving. How could John leave? _Why _was John leaving? Did he do something wrong? Was he not good enough?

Sherlock let himself wallow in self-pity for all of two minutes before the anger overtook him.

He had done nothing wrong. This was all John's fault. He always went on about how he would never leave Sherlock, and the first chance he gets, he bolts.

Sherlock growled. Fishing through the papers on his desk, he picked up a small business card, remembering a promise from long ago.

_"Give me a ring if you ever reconsider."_

The voice of Jim Moriarty echoed through his head, and the prospect of drugs was looking ever better.

Sherlock pulled out his cell phone and began to type in the number, his finger hesitating ever-so-slightly on the talk button, thinking for one minute how John would react.

_But John didn't care anymore. Remember? _The voice in his head said snidely._ This is your only escape._

Sherlock pressed talk.

"Hello?" Came the smily voice.

"Jim, it's Sherlock."

"Sherry! How wonderful it is that you _finally _decided to call!" Jim's voice suddenyl became very cheerful.

"How soon can you get it to me?" Sherlock spoke in clipped tones.

"The forest at eight." With that, Jim hung up and Sherlock slowly put the phone down. This was it. This was the moment his life would change. There was no going back.

Quickly, Sherlock grabbed his wallet, taking out a couple hundreds of pounds. He didn't know how expensive this stuff was, and wanted the best. If he was going to ruin himself, why not do it with style.

Eight o'clock pulled around and Sherlock slipped out of the house, walking briskly to the forest. He met Jim on the edge, his pale face shining like a vampire's.

Pulling out the money, Sherlock shoved it in Jim's face. "Give me the best."

Jim laughed at Sherlock urgency, pulling out a small, hypodermic needle. When Sherlock looked confused, Jim smiled and leaned in. "Seven percent solution. Stronger and easier," he whispered, his lips nearly meeting Sherlocks. "And if you don't want to pay with money, I'm sure we ccan think of some other kind of restitution." He smiled and Sherlock recoiled in horror.

"Never," he spit, taking the needle from Jim.

"Whatever you say, Sherry," Jim sang, "you know where to find me." With a wink, he slunk back into the darkness. Sherlock just shook his head before walking back to the house. He quickly trampled up the stairs and closed his door. Breathing deeply, he positioned the needle, his hands shaking slightly.

For a second, he sat on his bed with the needle poised, thinking about what he was about to do. John?

No. Don't think about John. This will be the new John. This will be better than John. Jim said so.

Convinced that it was the best idea, Sherlock took a deep breath and plunged the syringe into his radial vein, pushing down the plunger. The needle stung as it hit his nerves, but the rush of the liquid through his veins was worth it. Within ten seconds, Sherlock suddenly felt free and happy-euphoric. This was incredible! His mind was working at a million miles an hour, but he was focused and could see clearly. It was like a film had been pulled from over his eyes. Everything was heightened, and he felt the urge to do something. So, pulling out an experiment on amino acid chains in different rodent DNA's (one that had given him quite a bit of trouble) he immediatly began to work, his hands flying and his brain soaring.

He didn't hear the knock on the door, didn't hear it open, and barely heard the "Sherlock?" that came from it.

He turned around to come face to face with John.

"Sorry," John continued nonchalantly, "just forgot my coat here." he walked over and picked it up, Sherlock watching him with interest. Could he hide this from John? Would John not notice?

He was almost elated, when John gave him a shrewd look. He could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"...Sherlock," John asked hesitantly, "are you okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied promplty, maybe too promptly, "perfect!"

"You're not..._on_ anything?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock gave an ear-splitting grin. he was about to turn back to his experiment (the results were _fantastic_) when John's eyes swivled to the bed, focusing on onse singular object.

The syringe.

John focused on the syringe on the bed and his eyes flew back to Sherlock's, taking in their dialated pupils. Then, it all sank in.

Sherlock was high.

_Sherlock_ was _high_.

Sherlock, his eccentric, interesting, innocent boyfriend, was as high as a _fucking_ kite.

And John saw red.

"What the_ fuck_, Sherlock?" he whispered menacingly, pulling the dark-haired boy away from the experiment. "Are you _fucking high_ right now?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, John, I am."

"Why?" John hissed, trying not to slap Sherlock.

"Because you're leaving," Sherlock explained, trying to wrench his way out of John's grip. John just held on tighter.

"So I leave and you turn to this _shit?_"

Sherlock nodded. "Stop swearing John, vulgar language doesn't suit you," he sniffed.

"Being _high_ doesn't suit you, you _tosser_!" John nearly shouted. "Why the _fuck _did you do this?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly became dar. "Because you were the best thing that had ever happened to me, and now you're leaving I can't cope."

"I'm not going to be with you all the time, Sherlock," John said, trying to calm down. "Sometimes I need to get away.

"Oh, and is 7,000 kilometres far enough away?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't make this _my _fault. You're the one standing here filled with drugs! Don't you know that they _fuck up _your mind?"

"John, I feel better than I have in ages! And yes, this _is _all your fault." Sherlock glared down at John. They were close enough to kiss, but John would _not _kiss those lips. Not while he was angry.

"I _cannot_ believe you, Sherlock. I thought you were stronger than this," John whispered.

Sherlock's eyes were steely cold "And I thought you said you would never leave me."

John bowed his head. "I know, and I'm sorry. But it's my dream. Can you respet that?"

"No."

John glared at Sherlock. "Will you stop with the cocaine?"

"Of course not. Not if you're gone."

"Well I'm not going to be responsible for watching you slowly kill yourself." With those harsh words, John gave Sherlock one more look, and walked out the door.

It wasn't until he was in the woods, covered by the darkness, that he let himself cry.

Sherlock didn't truly process the fact that John had left until he was coming down from his high. As the world slowly became duller, he became aware of the sadness and emptiness that was slowly filling him. There was nothing he could do. He had ruined it.

It was a danger to care, that much he knew, and he would never make the same mistake again.

Maybe it was better to be a sociopath; to stay away from the emotions that would let you fly high in the sky one minute, and leave you trampled in the dust the next.

He pulled out his cell phone

_I need some. Get me some. -SH_

**Back so soon? I'm afraid the price has gone up. -JMxx**

_I don't care. I have nothing to lose -SH_

**The woods in ten. And don't worry, I have a place to stay -JMxx**

Sherlock closed his phone, packed a few belongings, and raced out of the mansion, away from the memories, to a new, sociopathic, life.

Who needed emotions anyway?


End file.
